XX
by Celtic Amazon
Summary: In which Mycroft Holmes attempts to flirt with a French politician, Grace Lestrade ponders justice, life, and Sherlock, and Jemma Moriarty obsesses.


_Ok, so I absolutely love this fandom and this is so out of cannon I can't really explain where it came from other than the fact that I stumbled across a file on my laptop yesterday at work with just three names: Mycroft Holmes, Grace Lestrade, and Jemma Moriarty. I don't remember what prompted that originally, but this is what came out of it... Enjoy._

_Disclaimer: I made, and continue to make no money having performed a sex change on these three characters._

* * *

**Mycroft Holmes**

"Well one thing is for certain: I'm sure the Tunisian ambassador wasn't expecting the entire contents of the case to be alive!"

The Russian secretary of state laughed and offered her another glass of wine which Mycroft graciously accepted. It wasn't often she was called upon to attend these more social functions; as the British government preferred her in a more behind the scenes role, but on occasion duty called, and she had found herself prepared to attend a dull evening with various dull politicians. That was until the handsome head of the French intelligence service had decided to put in a surprise appearance. Olivier Lafontaine's infatuation with her was less than a state secret. Now she was finding herself passably entertained by flirting with the Russian secretary of state while darting teasing glances at Lafontaine. They'd played this game many times over the years they'd both been employed by their respective governments; whenever their paths crossed, whether Olivier was on in his first wife or his fifth. They were both perhaps getting a bit old for this pastime but Mycroft always found it entertaining and they were never so indiscreet to take things to a point of no return.

At any rate, there was more than ample time, after dinner (and another glass of wine; thank you secretary of state Abramov) to talk shop and deal out subtly veiled threats about what they knew about the various company around the table and each other's governments.

As they adjourned from the table, Mycroft carefully readjusted her impeccably tailored blazer to hide the small blood and oil stains on the sleeve of the silk blouse underneath. It was careless perhaps to have come to this dinner still baring the signs of her "emergency meeting" with a certain member of an international trafficking ring, but being the sum of the British government was often messy, and tireless work. There simply hadn't been time to change.

"Mycroft, enchanting as ever."

She fixed Lafontaine with a coolly unimpressed, polite smile.

"Monsieur Lafontaine. How is your charming wife?"

He looked up at her with a handsome impish grin.

"Actually, Madame Lafontaine and I-"

The flirtation was cut short by the vibration of Mycroft's phone in the pocket of her blazer.

_Damn._

There was only one reason she was being interrupted at this point. Either the whole of England was in flames and under attack or...

She looked at the display. She had a text message from her assistant Anthony. One word:

SHERLOCK

_Damn._

* * *

**GRACE LESTRADE**

"You're becoming totally dependent on him," Donovan muttered darkly.

It was an old argument and it wasn't getting any fresher as it wore on.

"Just go and get the forensics report!"

There was a tense moment of silence before Sally threw up her hands and left the office.

She wasn't even going to bother denying it anymore: she _was_ dependent on Sherlock. Not by choice, not bloody likely. But for whatever reason, it seemed like criminals, clever ones, with agendas were coming out of the woodwork; and more and more, they needed Sherlock Holmes' particular brand of help.

And as far as Grace was concerned, protocol be damned, the most important thing was saving lives and serving justice. The picture of herself aged seven dressed in her father's oversized police uniform tucked safely in the top drawer of her desk was her best reminder of that when she started to doubt herself. When she pulled it out to look at it, she was always reminded of her seven year old sense of justice and indignity at all the world's wrongs. She couldn't remember a time when she didn't want to be a police officer.

And she was a good cop, with a more than decent head on her shoulders, but she was no Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had a god-given (or possibly not-so-divinely-gifted) talent for solving crimes, and she couldn't in earnest regret finding the waif of a junkie and forcing him to clean up by dangling interesting cases in front of him and blackmailing him into sobriety with threats of withholding those puzzles from him; and finally turning him into the world's first and only consulting detective. Maybe she'd created a monster so to speak, but she just couldn't bring herself to regret it; not completely.

If only the man didn't lack all basic social skills...and humility. If only he didn't make Grace's officers want to practice a little police brutality on him and Grace herself want to toss him in the Thames so often. The only other man who managed to set her teeth on edge that much right now was her husband. A subject she wasn't ready to dwell on just now.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

Grace looked up from the spot on her desk that had taken the brunt of her brooding.

"Yes?"

" Russell Patel; internal affairs."

Grace looked the young man in front of her up and down. Well, his timing really left something to be desired...

* * *

**JEMMA MORIARTY**

Bored.

Bored-bored-bored-bored-bored.

Boooooooooring...

Tedius. God, that's what it was every single day, a fight, a duel, a battle royale with just plain old ennui.

Jemma climbed onto the chair she'd been sitting in and hopped up on to the table top. An aerial view, yes, that's what she needed. Scattered all around her bare feet were pictures, big glossies of the only thing of late that had managed to keep her brilliant attention: Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock..." she sang to herself as she sifted through the pile of photographs, toeing them around; stirring the pot.

She'd sent her three least favourite assassins off on the errand to take surveillance photos of Sherlock Holmes if for no other reason than it would have been inconvenient to have killed the three men in her current state of boredom; thus depriving herself of three perfectly usable, if terminally boring assassins.

Oooo. She just wanted to run her fingers through those dark curls, yes... dig in and scalp pretty little Sherlock Holmes, then look inside and see all the interesting bits that made him tick.

"Tick, tick, tick..." Moriarty murmured as she lowered into a catlike crouch among the pictures. "What makes you tick Sherlock?" she purred.

Sherlock at Bakerstreet... Sherlock at St. Bart's... at the police station...at The Royal Exchange...with a black eye one time (delicious)...with Big Brother Mycroft... with Molly Hooper...with John Watson-

Ah.

Jemma pried the picture free with a flourish and sank to sit cross legged, spreading her bathrobe out around her.

John Watson.

A slow, predatory smile leaked out across her features as she gracefully reclined onto a bed of photographs, a bed of Sherlock Holmes...

"Tick, tick, tick..."

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_Just a little creative fun to pass the time. Hope you enjoyed!_

-Amazon


End file.
